


Kaleidoscope

by opal_bullets



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_bullets/pseuds/opal_bullets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s nighttime on the Enterprise, and Spock attempts to organize his thoughts about the circumstances that brought him there. Also, Kirk makes a surprisingly perceptive query.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidoscope

-o-o-o-

 

 

Spock lay in his bed, thinking.

Not thinking: categorizing, filing. The new data he’d collected throughout the day swirled in a mass at the top of his consciousness. He picked out words and images one by one, studied them, turned them on their heads, examined every facet and circumstance, acknowledging complications and extrapolating the consequences. He compared and contrasted them with the information already stored in his mind. Then, he tucked each datum safely away in his long term memory and plucked the next piece from his thoughts.

Spock could practically see these thoughts in front of his eyes; idly he lifted a hand as if to move them, creating eddies and whorls in a kaleidoscope of blue, red, and gold, of “Nothing in this sector,” and “Interesting,” and “Yes, captain.” His hand seemed to leave a faint trail of white in the darkness of his quarters, and slowly his thoughts faded and he was left staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes he did not recognize that ceiling. On days when he slept deeply, or was woken unexpectedly, his eyes would fly open, and his guts would clench; he would have a harried second of, _Where am I, why am I not in my room, how did I get here?_ before the last few years would click back into place, and he remembered. Spock would recall that he had left his home, had joined Starfleet, was an instructor there, had served under the man who was now Admiral Pike, until finally he ended up as first officer to Captain James T. Kirk. He was not in his room at home because Vulcan…no longer existed. Upon reaching this conclusion, Spock would deliberately relax his muscles, sit up, and shake off the illogical thoughts like a trail of cobweb from an errant hand.

Of course, it was not technically a thought. It was a feeling. Full-blooded Vulcans did not wake up in the morning wondering where they were, or if, in fact, they were in a familiar place. It would be illogical for one to assume that he were anywhere but the location in which he fell asleep. Vulcan stomachs did not twist in confusion or fear. Adrenaline did not course through Vulcan veins without first being told to do so. This notion of Spock’s was human, completely and utterly human.

Naturally he did not know this with 100% certainty; he had no data to compare, nor anecdotes from others which he could cross-examine or consult. The simple fact remained that it had happened to him a total of five times during his first year at Starfleet Academy, but then it had ceased. That startling, sinking blow to his chest had returned, however. If klaxons sounded, or if he were overly exhausted from the day before, Spock would feel sheets that were too rough against his skin, and he would wonder at the strange quality of light that slid against the window. Once in a while he would believe himself to be back in his dormitory at the Academy, or in his instructor’s quarters, and in such cases he would be momentarily put off his guard by the lack of moonlight, the absence of salt in the air.

Then, Spock would remember.

The surprise and confusion would dissipate and he would state firmly in his mind: _You have left Vulcan. You have graduated from Starfleet. You helped to destroy the_ Narada _, and now you are the first officer on the_ USS Enterprise _, flagship of the fleet._

Those were the words. These were the feelings:

 _You have left Vulcan._

Shame. If Spock had been a better Vulcan, a better son – he would have controlled his emotions. He would not have refused the Vulcan Council. If he had been better – he could have smothered the flow of vitriol aimed at his mother and his heritage. He would have proven them wrong, showing their complete illogic, slowly stripping their prejudice down until he bared to them the fallacy beneath it. Then Spock would have stayed on Vulcan, and when the seismic activity on the planet started, he would have gotten his parents off-planet immediately; he would have stopped the entire Council from going where they could not be beamed to safety, because it was only logical. If he had been a better son –

 _You have graduated from Starfleet._

Disgust. If Spock has been a better Vulcan, a better officer – the Kobayashi Maru would have been completely different. It would not simply have been a no-win scenario; it would have been a no-cheat scenario with a series of firewalls and failsafes that would have baffled even the major crime hackers kept in the no-tech prison on Saregen VIII. Then, most of the Academy would not have been assembled on his say so, then the admiralty would have gotten the distress call right away, then he would have had a precious few more seconds to save the planet, save the Council, save his mother. If he had been a better officer –

 _You helped to destroy the_ Narada _, and now you are the first officer on the_ USS Enterprise _, flagship of the fleet._

Despair. If Spock had been a better Vulcan, a better person, he would have been able to contain his grief and think more logically. He would have listened to Kirk, they would have reached Earth sooner, would have warned Starfleet. They would have beamed aboard the _Narada_ in time to stop the drill before it could even begin its work. He would have warped away, not near Saturn where he knew the _Enterprise_ was lying in wait, no, but much farther away, and then he would have done the same as before – oh yes, this he would have done the same – he would have driven his counterpart’s ship (his counterpart, how unlike him, how old, and wise, and one with his skin, who had known his mother and father, had lived his whole life knowing there was a planet to come home to) straight into the _Narada_. But this time he would not have failed, would not have suddenly appeared in a blindingly bright transporter room when he should have imploded with that tiny ship commissioned on Vulcan, stardate 2387, that aberrant, anachronistic piece of the future, a future that never was and never would be, a lost thing that needed to be destroyed lest it cause more devastation, just like himself. Spock was anchorless, without past, without future, and he needed to be destroyed lest he cause even more devastation, if only Kirk hadn’t ordered him beamed out as well, Kirk, always Kirk! If he had been a better person –

Illogical, all of it. Just as they would threaten to overwhelm, Spock would carefully fold up each wave of emotion as they came to him and tuck them back where they could be hidden, and not interfere with the logic of what was proven and what simply was. If he had stayed on Vulcan there was an 86.7% chance that he would have died; if they had left Starfleet with all due haste, they might have been caught by the _Narada_ without ever having reached Vulcan; if he had died, well…he would not be here.

Spock lifted his hand again and cut through the pendulous mass of thoughts that had reformed before his eyes, and it swirled angrily. The words and colors spun more quickly now, stars and squares and swathes ever-shifting and ever-colliding as they turned over in his mind. Red ricocheted off gold, which slid into blue therefore dyeing it green, and suddenly the green began to bleed through it all, pulsing, slithering, oozing, mutating. It was the verdancy of passion, the green of antiquity, the blood of his people pumping perilously close to the surface. It was his shame and disgust and despair, his rage and his hatred and his love, his frustration and his joy. All at once it surged forward, and for one moment, one breathless moment, it threatened to consume him.

Silently, without a single finger trembling, he closed his hand into a fist. The cloud of thought and feeling was caught fast. The green was once again enclosed inside the white of his flesh. Spock wiped away the last of its trailing tendrils, his hand leaving light patterns in its wake. Harder to wipe away was the mucus that was pouring from his nose, since the buildup of moisture in his sinuses had nowhere else to go.

Vulcans did not have tear ducts.

-o-o-o- 

The next day Spock opened his eyes and knew his own quarters. After a brief sonic shower, he took out a clean uniform and dressed himself. Lastly he slipped his boots onto his feet and tied them securely with swift, efficient strokes. Then at precisely oh-eight-hundred ship standard time, he entered the bridge and relieved the science officer on duty.

The other crew members on the bridge were a mix of the last shift and the first: Ensign Chekov was often eager and at his station before all the rest. In the seven months of their mission they have so far served, Lieutenant Uhura has arrived before him 65.92% of the time. Lieutenant Sulu made the habit of coming to the bridge just after, but always, always last was the captain. The turbolift doors would open and he would step out and pause briefly, surveying the various stations spread before him and the crew members who sat at each. He would then seem to nod slightly and smile, acknowledging that this was good: the _annuere_ of some ancient Terran deity.

This day did not differ from the ones that had come before. Spock heard the hiss of the automatic doors, and without even turning his head he could time it precisely: pause, nod, grin –

“Morning, all! I hope everyone slept well,” the captain greeted them. There was a susurration of assent from the others present, several footfalls, and the sound of fabric hitting fabric. Then Spock heard a tapping sound, probably Kirk’s fingers on the armrest, which abruptly stopped when he heard Yeoman Rand say, “Good morning, Captain,” bringing the smell of freshly-brewed coffee with her. Soon after, Spock discerned the sound of a small slurp amidst the humming of the ship.

“Spock!” the captain suddenly said, smacking his lips in appreciation of the drink almost at the same time, “How about you? Get a good night’s sleep?”

The first officer turned around in order to face his captain. Kirk was lounging in his chair, blue eyes twinkling openly at him from over his mug. Without thinking, Spock responded, “Vulcans do not require a full night’s sleep, Captain,” because that was the easy answer.

Kirk laughed, because he thought it was the difficult one. “Ah yes, how forgetful of me. Vulcans are far more efficient than us Humans.”

“Why thank you, Captain,” Spock said, and turned back around to face his station.

Vulcans were more efficient and even superior, perhaps, but if that was so, why could Spock have not done any better? Kirk had shown himself capable in the same situation. So maybe a half-Human, half-Vulcan was, being impure, inferior to both. Spock’s fingers flew over his station, going over the routine checks to be certain that nothing had inadvertently been missed or put out of place while he was not on duty.

“You know, Mr. Spock,” said Kirk, who was unexpectedly standing over his shoulder. Spock did not look up from his work. “You often talk about all the things that Vulcans ‘do not’ do.” The captain lazily rested his hip against the science console and crossed his arms, smirking. “What is it then, exactly, that they do?”

Before a denial was even fully formed in his mind, Spock realized it was true. “Vulcans do not sweat,” he had told Lieutenant Sulu whilst sparring. “Vulcans do not kiss in that manner,” he had told the then Cadet Uhura when she had first pressed his lips to his. “Vulcans do not have emotions,” he often told a scowling, grumbling, _feeling_ Dr. McCoy. As his knee-jerk response to Kirk’s earlier question proved, enumerating Vulcan qualities – or rather, qualities they lacked – was a habit. It could even be argued that it happened with such frequency, it could be termed a fixation.

Vulcans did not have fixations.

Yet Vulcans also did not…discuss their qualities. Even now, during the time when the Vulcans had the most need of Humans and other species in the Federation, when there were so few Vulcans remaining, what members were left on the Council shut themselves away from the universe more than they ever had before. They consolidated their knowledge, the proclaimed keepers of Vulcans and all their memories, their culture, and now all that their planet once was. They hoarded the information close to them in their new cave like dragons guarded precious gems in old Terran tales. Their memories might be long, and those of other Vulcans, but Humans…Humans forgot.

There was a small variety of alien species aboard the _Enterprise_ , but for all intents and purposes this was a Human ship, as Starfleet was a Human organization. Spock was surrounded by them, inundated by their thoughts, their shouting, their emotions. They all passed through their short lives flitting from one thing to the next, letting the experiences surge through and around them, only holding close those things, illogically, with which they had an emotional attachment. A Human was capable of taking great care and detail in what they did – but a Human like Lt. Uhura, who could note the slightest vowel shift in Lower Eastern Tellarite, by her own admission barely remembered a thing from the required advanced physics courses every cadet had to take the year of their matriculation. Likewise, Lieutenant Commander Scott was unsurpassed when it came to warp engineering, but could barely imitate the accent of the majority of his crewmates that he heard every day. It was strange, inefficient, but essentially Human nature; and however much education he had received on Vulcan, Spock had spent the last several years with these aliens, and it was likely he would be surrounded by them for as long as he chose to stay in Starfleet.

Maybe his habit of pointing out the differences between his two parent species was to distance himself from the others, an acknowledgement, a constant reminder to them that he was different, he was not Human, they always treat him like one, but they cannot do that. If they continue on as usual, and Spock allows them to do so, then perhaps he too, with time, will forget. And if Spock is the only Vulcan willing to treat Humans as his peers, then he must make sure that they do not forget. And if he continues to remind them, then they might even begin to understand.

But how does one explain an entire culture, a near-forgotten people, to someone who was of a diverse species, from a wholly different planet? How does one even begin to tell the ancient history of a violent race, how they overcame their savageness through willpower alone, how their logic was more than just a way to live a life, but a means of saving it – How does one describe the experience of walking alone on the cool desert sand at night, how the starlight would glint off the minerals to create the illusion of a shimmering blanket spread soft beneath his bare feet – How does one make a Human understand the concept of the katra, and how when a Vulcan dies, the essence of everything that they know and are is saved and kept safe and that with the implosion of the planet, he had felt the utter annihilation of all that Vulcans have ever created together? That never would those parts of them live on?

No. Some things could not simply be encompassed by words. The whole of his culture and his people could not be expressed verbally even if he gave a lecture on the subject every night for the remainder of their mission. The closest approximation would be to offer a mindmeld, but that…was unacceptable.

For that brief second of thought after he heard Kirk’s inquiry, Spock’s vision swam. His blue-clad arm resting on the console wavered against the backdrop of command gold, twisting, trembling, and green slid across his eyes, that hot, wild, throbbing emerald of unbridled blood, and Spock blinked.

The colors snapped apart and the Commander looked up at his Captain. The query, after all, required a response. _What do Vulcans do?_ Vulcans did, perhaps, what Spock does and must.

“Perform admirably,” he said.

-o-o-o- 

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;  
That only men incredulous of despair,  
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air  
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access  
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,  
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare  
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare  
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express  
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death--  
Most like a monumental statue set  
In everlasting watch and moveless woe  
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.  
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:  
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

                        -- _Grief_ , Elizabeth Barrett Browning

**Author's Note:**

> I read the postscript for the first time about a week or so after I wrote this story out in a notebook. It was perfect timing but another instance, alas, of geniuses saying in a few words concepts I’ve always struggled to express. I deemed it fitting to add.


End file.
